


very sweet, very nice

by acerbicapplecoffee



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Drabble, F/F, Mental Health Issues, Out of Character, Running Away, Tumblr Prompt, it's basically a gen again!, total psychological drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 04:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicapplecoffee/pseuds/acerbicapplecoffee
Summary: And on the picture there were Amane and a glossy pink glow of the evening — there were many strikingly similar evenings during the first decade of the twenty-first century.





	very sweet, very nice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written according to a prompt "Misa/Takada + pink". I honestly failed both the tasks of writing a humorous text and of keeping a humorous mood; there is something quite obscure about the story basis itself and I truly apologize fot this.

To be quite honest about it, even though Takada was a media personality herself, she never truly wanted to understand exactly why the young women generally leaving an impression of people clearly knowing their own worth are so attracted to the profession of model and why after each casting announcement the very same women were knocking against the corridor walls perplexedly, like moths are knocking against a night lantern, and phone receivers and mailboxes were melting down of tears and bitterness of grievance — or, to be more precise, Takada was aware of it with her mind, but did not hasten to accept this state of things and perceived her own work as significant and very responsible, even if presupposing something that, in fact, bound her and those miserable women together — selling of the face; and since Takada did not understand models, then her opinion of idols was by no means the most flattering one: it simply did not fit in her head how could anybody condemn themselves to the everlasting half-childish buffoonery, how could anybody jump on the stage to the sound of foolish songs of two variations — about the bigger love and about the smaller love, whereas the second version occurred much more often, — as if you were still fifteen years old, how was it possible for anybody to disrespect themselves to such an extent and to shine with their stupidity all over the country? — and it was much easier for Takada to consider them, without going into details — no exaggeration, really — as weird people. As insane people. Or, speaking politely, the interesting ones.

Amane fit into this category completely. Amane was more than weird: whatever idea came into her mind, so she would say aloud; whatever she wanted to do, so she would, — and maybe for that reason Takada was not at all surprised when she received a perfumed light pink envelope for the fifth time, such a little envelope only with a half-folded sheet of paper of the same colour inside — on the paper she might discern an _‘I’m challenging you to a duel’_ drawn with thin and erratic lilac lines.

_The same place, the same time! Hurry up, Takada!_

And Takada responded, also for the fifth time, without realizing what for.

 

Pink… It is pink even here, too.

Such a shameless colour…

 

“You aren’t going to grow up yet, right, Amane-san?”

“What for? That’s so boring, Takada! You can’t understand it, sure — you were born as boring and you will die as boring, — but a girl right in the prime of charm and beauty just needs to have adventures. At least any kind of them!”

“Learn how to hold a pen properly first. And think of another song. ‘I’m challenging you to a duel’...”

“If you don’t have any fun, then why bother to live?”

“And how have you even come up with the idea…”

“I was walking along the street, and then I saw a pink cat. With a pink ribbon, you know. Cat told me that, whispered in my ear… I didn’t hear it clear at first, and she scratched me, right here. Look — here. So I had to listen carefully.”

“Well, it’s stupid. A pink cat, a pink ribbon, a pink paper…”

“Wait!.. Where — just wait. Wait. Let’s go.”

“Coming there again? That’s bad taste. We have to respect ourselves, Amane-san.”

“You like it. I like it. I’m seeing right through you, Takada: you aren’t able to resist, and if you don’t come with me, you will regret it, that’s so sweet after all, very-very-very nice!..”

“Let me go… Well, fine. Fine, let’s go.”

“Very sweet, very nice!..”

 

The same place, the same hour, for the fifth, and for the sixth, and for the seventh, and for the eighth, and for the ninth, and for only god knows what time.

 

Even before they enter the hotel, Takada is picturing to herself what their rooms are going to look like, more or less: three rooms, two will be occupied, but the only one will be used the most, if the plans do not change; smooth walls, a big window and tulle curtains coming down to the floor; a plain table, flowers in a crystal vase, two armchairs, carpet floors, a double bed, and everywhere, on every surface something pink will appear, how Amane manages to do it, how arranges it, is she paying extra especially for this, where is she taking money from, the pink colour will be screaming about itself, will be striking the eyes, but she has to endure the colour, because Amane is not able to be different anymore, — and their rooms are actually turning out the way Takada imagined; they both enter, look around and sit down, then they are remaining silent and viewing each other for a while, and then someone is getting up mutely, taking another’s hand, leading to another room and taking off clothes, and Amane’s dresses all resemble the stage ones, as if she’s right in the middle of performance, and when Takada touches Amane while Amane, without uttering a single word, which is rare, runs her fingers through Takada’s hair, it inexplicably seems to Takada that with every breath taken she is being more and more infected with Amane’s irreversible absurdity, and they both are becoming an exceptionally ridiculous sight now.

 

“Take a picture of me! Take a picture of me! Quick, Takada!”

“You… Now?..”

“Yes, yes! Where’s the camera?”

“Amane! Your imprudence…”

“So slow… And you’re bragging of graduating the university. So where are your universities now? You have to get what people are saying! Move faster: you miss it — you’ll regret it!..”

“Hoping for your face now? You think you’re still beautiful, don’t you? You think the camera will love you even like this, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it — I know it. A special kind of beauty. _Special._ You won’t ever see such a beauty anymore. Neither in Tokyo! Nor in the entire Japan! Nowhere! Quick!”

 

They could not find a camera there, and so had to take pictures with Takada’s phone, Takada’s hands were shaking and the screen displayed tiny pictures slightly out of focus, one picture after another — face, face, body, another posture, arms, hands, face, mouth, eyes, — and neither Takada nor Amane did have any desire to stop, they was not able to stop, change your pose again, come here, closer to me, closer, come on, one picture after another, one picture after another…

 

Perhaps, Amane — with her tiny hands, round pretty face, short songs about little love, chatters on late-night shows, cute dyed hair, clumsy outfits, glitters, noises on TV screens, loveliness in public, frivolity while being nearby Takada, shouts, tenacious embraces and desperateness — entirely belonged to her time: if somebody studied her like scientists are studying the cultural phenomenons, in the various articles would be written that she incarnated the time; although any time is running out sooner or later, all the cultural phenomenons are erasing from people’s memory, magazine photos are fading away, cassettes with the recorded shows are being put on the archive shelves, yet Amane was not able to leave, she is still dancing, shrouded with the pink light, as a child — step to the left, step to the right, clap your hands and turn around, — challenging Takada to the assumed duels, arguing about some kind of a mirage beauty — that’s so sweet after all, very-very nice — and dispelling down the wind.

 

“Something’s wrong, I just cannot understand… It doesn’t work… Where are you going? Are you leaving already?”

“No… Not yet. There is still some time left.”

“Okay. You know, Takada… I probably will try to think of another song. Sometime later. Maybe. Are you going to sleep now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Have a good night then.”

“Goodnight.”

 

...and on the picture there were Amane and a glossy pink glow of the evening — there were many strikingly similar evenings during the first decade of the twenty-first century, — on the picture there were Amane and thin pink blankets which do not hide but reveal even more, on the picture there were Amane and swollen pink lips kissed for the first time on this bed but not for the first time by this person, on the picture there were Amane and a habitual unblinking stare through the lens, on the picture there was Amane screaming somebody’s name with a pink whisper again and again, unstoppably, and on the picture there was an overexposed pink silhouette which Amane remained and will remain, and on the last picture there was...

19.06.17

**Author's Note:**

> I guess, this certain kind of AU may be defined as 'what if all the events of DN already happened, but Kiyomi and Misa managed to survive somehow'. A pure fantasy, nothing accurate, nothing stable.


End file.
